


Rétrospective

by vanderloo



Series: Univers Alternatif [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Established Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, F/F, Hannibal Thinking of Will During Sex, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Season 3, Will Thinking of Hannibal During Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanderloo/pseuds/vanderloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham's mind is elsewhere, that much is obvious. His movements are rigid and calculated, like he has to take care, like he's treading on hot coals that could burn him at any moment. Will is thinking of something else, of someone else; Margot assumes he's thinking of Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rétrospective

* * *

**Retrospective  
** _Rétrospective_

* * *

 

“I'm Doctor Bloom.”

It's one way to introduce herself, out of a thousand other, more polite ways of doing so. But Alana is a stranger to kindness, no longer finding a need for it. Not since Abigail rose from the ashes and pushed her out of a second story window. Not since Hannibal Lecter left her for dead, elegantly stepping over her crumpled form on the front porch, leaving her to drown in rainwater. No, the time for kindness is over. It's time to be straight forward, harsh and to the point. And that is how she intends to be around the Vergers. She had heard stories – not all pleasant – about the wealthy family, most of it from Jack Crawford, the blanks filled in by Will Graham and her evening read of The Tattler.

Margot Verger, the younger of the Verger siblings, eyes her with scrutiny upon her approach. The cane Alana uses as a walking aid effectively eliminates her efforts to be discreet, and she is positive Margot hears her coming before she announces herself. Margot wears a navy, velvet riding hat decorated with pigtails at either side of her head, accompanied by a thick green overcoat and riding boots, having not long dismounted her horse. She is much more dignified looking than Alana had imagined, better groomed and well-mannered than she could have hoped. Having your uterus forcefully removed from your body by a disturbed, sociopath brother could do multiple things to a young mind, but it doesn't seem to affect Margot negatively.

“You're the new psychiatrist,” Margot acknowledges her from where she stands, calming her horse from the newcomer. Alana is well aware of the situation; Margot's brother, Mason Verger, has had copious amounts of psychiatrists and zero of them have managed to make headway on his unique case. Alana intends to help him in any way she can, having been informed of his involvement with the infamous Hannibal Lecter. The scent of revenge is thick in the air, enveloping Alana's frail body in its mist and swallowing her whole. She will not be walked over, literally and figuratively, ever again.

Margot approaches Alana slowly, a questionable expression on her face. If it were anyone else, Alana would assume she was being objectified, but given Margot's violent past with sexual partners she highly doubts that. They share a similar taste in men, it seems; polite but troubled, turning out to be intelligent psychopathic serial killers in the end. There is a joke in there somewhere, but Alana hasn't the nerve to make it; the scars from a hysterectomy and the shattered pelvis of past mistakes are still too fresh. Time has yet to heal those wounds.

“I went one exit too far on the express way, came back along the service road.” Alana says, zoning in on Margot like she is some kind of threat to handle. She offers a small smile, watching the way Margot's face contorts strangely in response. “I'm not sure if this is my entrance.”

“This _can_ be your entrance,” Margot responds, and there's an undeniable flirtation in her words, if her face is anything to go by. Alana watches her with curiosity. “It isn't easy to find the first time you come.”

Alana hesitates, because, yes Margot is definitely flirting with her. Alana doesn't respond well to flirting, among other things; romance isn't her forte, as one can gather given her choice in previous sexual partners. She isn't the best judge of character out there, but with the way Margot is looking at her, it leaves something to be desired.

“I'm Margot Verger.” Margot holds out a soft, gloved hand and Alana accepts it with a hard frown, noting the way Margot's brow raises in suggestion. How someone can be interested in a romantic relationship so soon after a forced surgery, mind still tossing and turning around the idea that family could do such a thing, Alana doesn't know. And she doesn't want to know because that isn't her business, and it isn't why she is at the Verger estate today. Another time, another life, perhaps she would feel compelled to respond to the flirting. But not now.

 

 “Did my brother offer you chocolate?” Margot asks from where she is perched on a small, beige armchair. She holds a small glass of wine in one hand, a leather book in the other, having been startled by Alana's sudden presence. She has shed her riding clothes, and is now dressed in a white dress shirt with regular shoes. Her pigtails make her seem younger than what she is, Alana thinks, but she doesn't mention it.

“Yes.” She says, then smiles, “I politely refused.”

“Your ability to follow advice is admirable.” Margot comments, and Alana suddenly isn't sure if the younger woman is genuine. Regardless, Margot closes the book in her hand and places it next to her on a small, wooden table.

“Perhaps you could learn a few things from me,” Alana replies and intentionally shoots Margot a look; it is flirtation and they both know it, but to what end, Alana isn't so sure. The younger woman looks up from her glass of wine with a puzzled expression, which quickly melts into amusement, and perhaps desire. Alana isn't sure if that is the product of her own wishful thinking.

The room is a pleasant mixture of light and dark; the dull yellow of the lamp beside Margot's head – miraculously causing the younger woman to look much more attractive, Alana might add – casts a soft light across the room, clashing against the harsh greens of the furniture. But it isn't ugly, no; the Verger home is nothing short of exquisite. Mason must have an excellent decorator, or something.

“Perhaps I could,” Margot responds after a long minute, silence having engulfed them both. Alana remains standing, holding onto her walking cane as if it would root her to reality, keep her grounded in the unlikely even that Margot would sweep her off her feet, both literally and figuratively. “Perhaps not,” Margot interrupts Alana's verbal spar with herself with a harsh tone, “Will Graham gave you advice to stay away from Doctor Lecter. Look how that turned out.”

Alana's breath hitches in her throat in anger, but not at Margot, at herself. And at Hannibal; but mostly herself for being so foolish. She had danced around Hannibal willingly, taking part in their waltz and letting herself becoming entwined in his lies and half-truths, only to be one-upped in the end. She had never gained the upper hand as she assumed. Hannibal was always one step ahead of her, never feeling a twinge of emotion, using sex as a weapon against Will Graham. To provoke him into acting, to doing something about their affair; but Alana isn't sure where Will's intentions lay. Had he acted to protect her, or had he acted out of impulse to have Hannibal all to himself? The question haunts her sleep at night, keeping her awake under the moonlight, the dull ache in her pelvis fueling her taste for redemption.

“You needn't remind me of my mistakes.” Alana replies, voice calm and collected in comparison to her reeling mind. It feels like Margot can see right through her, much like Hannibal had done, and he had used it against her. She can't let Margot do the same; she isn't sure she will be able to survive another plummet out of a window. “My mind does that enough without your input.”

Margot clears her throat and takes an elegant sip of her wine, then swirls around the remaining liquid in her glass. She offers Alana a glass absently, to which she politely refuses, much like the chocolate Mason had offered her. Margot seems pleased at that, like Alana had learned something from their exchange.

“I imagine your mistakes keep you awake at night,” Margot mentions fleetingly and Alana feels transparent, stripped bare under the careful eye of the woman before her. Alana clears her throat to respond, but Margot speaks again, “Shivering in the darkness, consumed with the idea of revenge.”

“Something like that.” is all Alana says.

“I'm sure you know _seeking_ revenge is much more foolish than just considering it.”

“Your brother doesn't seem to understand that concept,” Alana notes, and suddenly there's a tensing in the air, like the mention of Mason has mentally crippled Margot. And Alana doesn't blame her; her brother's treatment had led her to therapy in the first place, after she had attempted to murder her only family member she had to gain control of the company. Pain can warp the mind into doing some reckless things, and Alana can attest to that.

“My brother has had difficultly thinking of much else other than capturing Hannibal Lecter since the incident.” Margot comments, and it feels like stating the obvious. Not many people encounter Hannibal Lecter and live to tell the tale; the three of them are living proof. They may have survived, but with scars and shattered bones and crippled minds. Hannibal leaves a trail of pain and suffering wherever he goes, a ghost of himself on whatever he touches. Alana fights off a shiver of compulsion, the idea of Hannibal touching her causing her stomach to churn.

“Understandable. I would be the same if I was tricked into consuming my own face.”

For whatever reason, what Alana says makes Margot laugh quietly. It's a morbid idea that her own brothers forced cannibalism causes her amusement, but that's another issue for another time. Alana simply smiles at her unintended joke – even though it wasn't a joke – and clears her throat. There's a long minute of silence as the two woman regard each other under the low light before Margot places her now empty wine glass down next to her book.

“It seems we have similar taste in sexual partners.” Margot comments, rising to her feet and taking a slow, menacing step towards Alana who holds her ground. “Will Graham, the deeply disturbed FBI investigator, and Hannibal Lecter, whose name speaks for itself.”

“Indeed we do.” Alana says, having already considered the fact that their sexual partners gave them a bad name in social circles, “However, your interest in Will Graham wasn't sexual, was it?”

Margot smiles, pleased at Alana's assumption. “I used him; he could give me what I needed for an heir to the Verger company.”

“I thought as much.” Alana replies as Margot comes to a halt in front of her, a couple of inches taller. Margot's face is wrinkled with stress and tension, but her head is held high as she attempts to fight the demons in her mind. Alana empathizes with her on that. “A pity that Will chose Doctor Lecter in the end, instead of you.”

Margot scoffs and Alana gets the impression the taller woman is trying her hardest not to spit. “I wasn't surprised. Evidently, what happened behind closed doors between those two was much more pleasing to Will than a child would be.”

“You'd involve him in the child's life?” Alana asks, surprised, attempting to imagine Will with a daughter or son. Her mind flicks to Abigail Hobbs and suddenly the idea of Will with an infant is impossible.

“As much as he was willing.” Margot states.

“Hannibal wouldn't have allowed that.” Alana says, and they both know it. “Not with the Hobbs girl alive.”

“Clearly.” There's a hint of spite in Margot's face, but it disappears as quickly as it came and is replaced with a soft sense of admiration. Alana watches it change and narrows her eyes slightly, watching as Margot's hand rises to brush her elbow, holding onto it in an intimate gesture. Suddenly she isn't sure if she can handle intimacy anymore, not since her encounter with a serial killer cannibal.

“I was so blind.” Alana admits after a beat, and Margot looks like she understands exactly what she means. She was so blind to Hannibal's intentions, blinded by her admiration for him when his admiration was elsewhere. Alana wonders absently, as Margot tightens her grip on her elbow then releases her, if Will Graham returned – or, returns – the love Hannibal displays for him.

 

Touching Hannibal is nothing like Alana imagines it would be; it's better, and it's worse, and it's everything in between. Hannibal is smooth yet rough beneath her hands, gentle and demanding like a poison seeping through her veins and making her feel most alive right before the moment of death. But death never comes, and Alana is caught in between the ecstasy of living and dying, crumbling under Hannibal's hands. The man above her doesn't look at her and instead his eyes are closed, and Alana can't hazard a guess what he's thinking. In that moment, it doesn't matter, because Hannibal is sure as hell doing an amazing job of making Alana losing her mind. Perhaps that is his intention.

They switch positions regularly, who comes out on top is circumstance. Hannibal looks at her but his eyes are cloudy and guarded, and she touches his face to judge his reaction. He simply closes his eyes once more and Alana would have realized, had she not been in the midst of pleasure, that perhaps Hannibal had his mind elsewhere. Somewhere else, on someone else.

In retrospective, she had been so blind.

 

It is tender and sweet until the moment it isn't, and suddenly their clothes are off and there's nothing gentle about it, nothing calm and nothing savored. It is sex in its rawest form, for pleasure and need and nothing in between. No emotions, no strings, the perfect way to get what Margot wants. Will Graham is a solid force above her, moving rhythmically, pinning her down. She lets him, and there's pleasure in it; of course there is. But she knows it isn't what she wants and it isn't who she is, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She could close her eyes and imagine a woman, imagine soft skin and eliminate the stubble burn on her neck. But she doesn't, there isn't a point. No kissing – they hadn't kissed, and she is fine with that. At least Will knows, too, that this is just casual sex.

Well, casual sex in a _I'm acquiring your sperm to concur my brother_ kind of casual sex.

Will Graham's mind is elsewhere, that much is obvious. His movements are rigid and calculated, like he has to take care, like he's treading on hot coals that could burn him at any moment. Margot understands that this is Hannibal Lecter's doing; no one else can make a person feel like that except their estranged psychiatrist. She feels pity for the briefest of moments, but then it is gone under a cloud of arousal and sweat and movement. Will is thinking of something else, of someone else; she assumes he's thinking of Hannibal. The way Will's face contorts when she mentions him, or mentions his practice, the smallest slither towards the topic of Hannibal Lecter gets Will's mind reeling. It's both troublesome and charming, in a way, to be so infatuated with another individual. Will isn't thinking of her, and that suits Margot just fine.

Alana Bloom is soft to the touch, similar to a petal, ironically. Her surname suits her and Margot gets lost in her skin, tracing the line of freckles down Alana's naval with her lips. The psychiatrist tenses beneath her, exhaling a short and sweet breath and making a noise that Margot aches to hear again. Again and again, music to her ears unlike the rough grunts she is accustomed to. White assaults her vision and she counts the stars behind her eyelids, naming them, touching them and caressing them, learning Alana's body like the back of her hand. She is slim and delicate, and Margot finds herself thanking whoever is listening for Hannibal not having devoured her.

Because now Margot can, just... not literally. Alana writhes beneath her, and their positions interchange every few moments, time becoming circumstance. The sheets are blurred beneath Alana, the toppled over lamp on the bedside table a thing of the past, nothing remaining but Margot under her hands. A tough exterior decorated with pale, freckled skin and stitches from operations Alana aches to erase from her mind. They are both damaged, and they are both in recovery. And for one short moment, in between scrambled thoughts of pleasure and sweat, she wonders if Will and Hannibal felt the same when they were intimate.

In retrospective, Margot is much better in bed than Hannibal Lecter. But she'll keep that one to herself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! There aren't a lot of Alana/Margot works out there so I thought I'd add mine to the small pile which exist, throwing in a little Hannibal/Will as I go. Hopefully everyone enjoyed and feel free to comment and critique! All are welcome. This does not have a beta.
> 
> Remember that Hannibal does not air tonight, as NBC pushed it back. It now airs on Saturdays at 10/9c! Please support Hannibal by showing your love for it on social media using the hashtag #SaveHannibal to save my beloved show being cancelled permanently! This weeks hashtag is #NakamaForever! Merci et prends soin de toi!


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